


Following Orders

by Iclare



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-07-28 18:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iclare/pseuds/Iclare
Summary: He knew he should have followed the order. If he had Aramis wouldn't be lying in the infirmary and he wouldn't be bleeding on his bedroom floor.In which d'Artagnan disobeys an order and the fallout is disastrous.





	1. One

The sun was just setting and the faint din of the street sellers shutting up shop for the night reached his room. There was a distinctive autumnal chill in the air and the absence of a flame in the fireplace had not gone unnoticed in the room.

The bleeding won’t stop.

He could hear the sounds of his comrades in the garrison below him dwindling as they stopped their training and commenced their personal time. Most would soon leave the grounds and seek refuge in the warm embrace of either a beer or a bosom.

Why won’t it stop?

He knew of 3 of his brothers - the term almost stuck in his throat; he wasn’t one of them anymore - that wouldn’t be leaving the garrison anytime soon.

God it hurts.

He could still see Aramis’ pale, blood soaked face slumped in unconsciousness before his bear of a friend Porthos pushed him out of the way causing him to tumble into the wet grass.

Athos and Porthos had made it very clear to him that he was not welcome in the infirmary. The doctor had just left, d’Artagnan had been watching from his window to see if there was any update on Aramis’ condition.

Maybe if I tell them I was injured they would help.

d’Artagnan quickly dismissed the idea. The fury in Athos’ eyes before he walked away from him was enough to confirm that he was no longer wanted. He had disobeyed a direct order. Of course he knew it was for a purpose - he had saved Aramis from getting killed - but he had still disobeyed an order from a higher command. He deserved to be punished. He just wished he could make sure Aramis was well.

Why won’t it stop?

If he knew that Athos and Porthos would leave the infirmary, even for a few minutes, he would go and see his friend to check on him. If he was able to steal some bandages while he was there that was a bonus but ultimately he needed to know his friend’s fate. He couldn’t get the bloodied face out of his mind. The bullet had come too close. They were lucky that the ball had grazed Aramis’s head instead of planting itself within the skull.

He was sure the doctor would be able to help but head wounds were tricky things. Aramis hadn’t even known that there was a bandit behind him until d’Artagnan had shouted his name. Aramis had dropped like a stone to the ground before d’Artagnan drove his sword through the thief’s chest. Unfortunately, just as his sword had penetrated the skin, his opponent had slammed a dagger into his side, the blade slicing through him and causing him to gasp.

I need to know he’s alright.

Athos had told him to hold his position. He had been instructed to watch their backs from the sidelines.

‘Hold your position, do not come near the area. Shoot only if you need to. Do not engage with them, we will take care of them.’

Athos had told him not to engage but honestly what choice did he have? Was he supposed to hide behind his tree like a child watching as his friend was murdered, unaware of the bullet being sent towards him.

Athos and Porthos were going to fight the bandits as soon as they were attacked on the road, disguised as simple travellers. Aramis and d’Artagnan were supposed to wait on either side of the road and watch with guns ready to jump in if they were needed.

From the reports it didn’t sound as though the attackers were particularly skilled so it shouldn’t have taken all of them to finish the job.

The reports had only said there were 6 masked men attacking travellers on the road. None of them mentioned a seventh. They didn’t know. Now all 7 were dead; they had left their mark but at least none of the Musketeers were dead

He hoped.

He couldn’t sit in his room any longer without knowing that his friend still lived. He pushed himself up from the wooden chair beside the window, grabbing frantically at the wall to stop himself falling over. Stars danced across his vision and he knew he was losing too much blood. He would deal with it when he knew Aramis was safe.

Pushing the rag he had been using to try and stem the blood flow into his shirt and hard against the wound, he bit his tongue to stop a moan threatening to escape him. He shrugged his doublet on carefully to hide the blood stain on his shirt and moved towards his door.

He knew Athos and Porthos were unaware he was injured; they had been too busy helping Aramis and getting him back to the garrison for treatment, and reprimanding him for disobeying orders for him to tell them. It was for the best anyway, he thought as he made his way down the wooden steps and across the courtyard; they didn’t need anything distracting them from Aramis.

Standing outside the door to the infirmary he felt a chill flow through him. He raised his hand to knock on the door but it was opened before his knuckles could make a sound.

The anger in Porthos’ eyes was not something he would forget in a hurry.

‘What?’ The dark skinned man growled, stepping forward towards the younger man, ensuring that he blocked his view into the room.

‘Aramis?’ d’Artagnan whispered, the name sticking in his throat. He needed water. His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘Alive, no thanks to you.’

The words cut him far worse than his enemy’s dagger had and he struggled not to flinch away from the man he still considered a brother.

‘Who is it?’ Athos’ voice called from inside the room.

‘The boy,’ Porthos called back, and those two words had tears filling d’Artagnan’s eyes.

Athos appeared in the doorway, nudging Porthos back towards Aramis’ bed. d’Artagnan caught a glimpse of his friend in the bed, a white bandage wrapped around his head, his skin as pale as the sheets he lay in.

‘What do you want, d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked exhaustedly. He had no energy left. He knew how close he had come to losing one of best friends and he was still furious with the man in front of him.

‘I just wanted to see if Aramis was alright. I’m sorry, ‘Thos, but-‘

‘The doctor said he will survive and should wake up in a few days. But honestly why do you care? You put him in danger. What were you thinking? Shouting his name all over the forest. Is it any wonder he was shot? You gave away his position.’

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was sure that version of the events wasn’t correct but now he was doubting himself. He had lost so much blood he felt so confused and was starting to think he had made his story up.

‘I gave you a simple order and you disobeyed it. You put Aramis in that bed. Now go. And do not come back.’

The finality in Athos’ words turned d’Artagnan’s stomach to ice. The door closed in his face before he registered it and he blinked in confusion.

He knew he wasn’t welcome here. The looks the other Musketeers were giving him as he walked past them had him ducking his head to stare at his boots as he stumbled towards his room. A shoulder or two were accidentally knocked into him as he walked up the stairs and it took all of his control not to fall down them.

He was back in his room before he realised it and closed the door softly behind him. He couldn’t stay here. He knew that now. He couldn’t stay and fight with men that he so easily put in danger. He hadn’t meant to disobey an order; he thought he was helping Aramis but now he doubted that he had helped him at all. He was in an infirmary bed because of him.

He slumped into the corner of his room, his eyes fixed on the door. He shed his doublet with difficulty and dropped it beside him. The rag he had been using to staunch the blood was saturated and he peeled it away from his skin with a wince.

Crawling over to the chest at the bottom of his bed he grabbed his spare blanket and retreated back to his corner. Not taking his eyes off the door he started tearing the blanket into pieces of material he could use to stop the blood.

He was waiting for Treville. He was sure that Athos had reported his failings to the Captain and he was expecting him to charge through the door any minute demanding he give up his commission and leave the garrison immediately.

A shiver wracked through his body as the chill of the room settled on him. He longed for a fire but the effort it would take to build one was not something he currently possessed. Equally his thirst was high on his list of needs but he was positive he couldn’t get down the stairs and back up again to get water.

The wooden floor was cold beneath him and he shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position.

He couldn’t sit on the bed, the blood would stain the covers and the next soldier who would use this room would be hard pressed to get the stains removed. He leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. He bit his lip as he pushed a piece of the torn blanket against his side to stop the bleeding. 

Several minutes passed by before he felt the blood start to slow. He breathed a sigh of relief and slumped his head forward. That was a terrible idea he decided shortly after. The world spun before him and he felt like he was going to vomit. Not that there was anything in his stomach to get rid of. 

He took several deep breaths and rested his head back against the wall. He stared at the door, watching the handle, trying to give himself something to focus on. Anything but the dizziness. The blood loss was taking its toll. He needed help. 

He mentally prepared himself to get up onto his feet but he was so tired. He couldn’t remember a time when he was so tired. If he could rest for a few minutes then he would get up. He would pack his bag and he would go. Where he would go he had no idea. He wasn’t welcome at the garrison. Constance had made it very clear that the Bonacieux residence was out of bounds too. 

He would just close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. He would feel better then. 

His head slumped forward and darkness crossed his vision. The hand pressing against the wound on his side fell to the floor, his fingers relaxing. A shiver ran through him and that was enough for consciousness to leave him.


	2. Chapter 2

The soft glow of candlelight ghosted around the infirmary several hours after the doctor had left the two musketeers to look after their injured comrade. Darkness had cloaked the garrison and the streets beyond the gates. Porthos had left only briefly to get wine and food to sustain them while Athos had remained steadfast at his brother’s bedside. They had a feeling they were in for a long night. 

Athos sat in a chair beside Aramis’ right side, staring angrily at the white bandages that circled his head. There had been no movement from the younger musketeer since they returned to the garrison. That in itself had caused panic in the other two soldiers. Aramis was always moving, even in sleep. His mind was more often than not tormented by nightmares of dead comrades in a frozen forest in Savoy, his body struggling to get away from them and the guilt that he felt. 

Porthos sat on the other side of the bed, one foot resting on the ground, the other on the bed, his boot pressing against Aramis’ leg beneath the blankets. 

‘Maybe we should listen to him.’ 

Porthos’ gruff voice broke the suffocating silence in the room. Had Athos been a less well trained soldier he would have started at the sound.

‘What?’

‘d’Artagnan. Maybe we should listen to him. There might be more to it,’ Porthos shrugged, swirling the remaining wine in his cup before drinking the lot. 

‘I don’t think so. It was a simple order. He’s better trained than that; we trained him ourselves. He knows better,’ Athos shook his head, reaching over to adjust the blankets at Aramis’ neck again. Porthos had lost count of how many times he had done that and he was starting to think that Athos was unaware he was doing it at all. 

‘We don’t know what happened Athos. There might be a reason.’

The glare Athos shot in Porthos’ direction was enough to stop any further words coming from him. 

Silence lay over the room for several hours, neither of the musketeers wanting to start speaking. Each was lost in their own thoughts of their brothers. 

Aramis had remained stubbornly unconscious on the bed

It was the smallest of movements that caused Porthos to shoot upright in his chair and launch himself towards the ill man. 

‘Aramis? Can you hear me? Open those eyes for me,’ Porthos spoke softly, conscious of the headache that the other Musketeer must have. 

A groan fell from Aramis’ chapped lips and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheeks. He blinked several times before he was able to focus on anything in front of him. He stared at Porthos’ tall frame leaning over him and mustered a small smile. 

‘Ever heard of personal space Porthos my friend?’ Aramis croaked, coughing lightly at the dryness of his mouth. 

‘You know that’s not how Porthos plays,’ Athos chirped in from the other side of the bed, awakening when he heard Porthos speaking. He went over to the table in the corner of the room and poured his friend some water. 

‘Easy now, small sips,’ Athos cooed, holding the cup to his friend’s mouth as Porthos raised his head to make drinking easier. 

Aramis gulped the water like a man dying before stopping and relaxing his head back against the pillow. His head was aching and even the small light from the candles in the room was making it hurt even more. The thought of vomiting had him shuddering. 

‘How are you feeling?’ Porthos asked, pulling the blankets back up to Aramis’ shoulders from where it had slipped down. He sat back in his chair and rested his arms on his knees. 

‘I fear my head might explode at any moment,’ Aramis admitted. He reached a hand up and was discouraged to feel the bandages secured around his head. 

‘What happened?’

‘What do you remember?’ Athos countered, leaning forward in his chair and looking into his brother’s eyes. 

Aramis took several minutes to try and recall what had happened. Most of it was a blur. His eyebrows furrowed. 

‘We were on a mission?’ 

‘That’s right, what else?’ Porthos nodded in response. 

‘I remember being behind a tree. I was watching the road...I was shot?’ Aramis questioned, feeling the bandages again and wincing as he touched the wound. 

‘Yes you were,’ Athos confirmed, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. He focused on his friend in the bed in front of him, not the one that had put him there. 

‘The doc wasn’t sure that your memories would still be intact; I’m glad to see that mostly they are,’ Porthos beamed at him. 

Aramis nodded, a yawn escaping his mouth. 

‘Rest, Aramis, you’ll be on strict bed rest for a few days. You shouldn’t even be awake right now,’ Athos explained, once again readjusting the blankets. 

Aramis looked ready to argue; he detested being on bed rest. He liked to move around. The glare that both Athos and Porthos sent his way, daring him to argue with them, had him nodding instead of arguing. 

Aramis snuggled down further into the blankets, his eyes drifting closed. But sleep eluded him, despite how bone weary he felt, there was something niggling at him. 

His eyes suddenly shot open and darted around the room. There was no one else in the beds. 

‘d’Artagnan?’ Aramis asked beseechingly, ‘Is he alright?’ 

Athos’ face remained as stoic as he could make it. 

‘Of course he’s alright, why wouldn’t he be? You’re the one in the infirmary, not him. But do not worry, I will explain to Treville exactly what happened on the mission and he will see that a fair punishment is dealt,’ Athos confirmed, standing up and making his way over to the table. He flexed his hands several times to try and work some of the tension out of his body before he felt a bit more settled. Pouring himself a cup of wine he turned back to his friends and didn’t like what he saw. 

Aramis seemed frozen to the spot, confusion painted across his face.

‘Why would he be punished?’ Aramis asked, sleep deserting him as he pushed himself up with difficulty until he was sitting up. 

‘He put you in danger, he gave away your position. He acted no better than a wet-behind-the-ears cadet. You’re here because of him,’ Porthos explained. Between the mission, Aramis’ injuries, and watching over him for the last few hours, Porthos’ energy had drained away and he had no will left to defend d’Artagnan. He knew it was a mistake, he certainly wasn’t the first person to make a mistake, but Porthos had almost lost his best friend and it was too close. 

Disbelief flashed across Aramis’ face and he shook his head. 

‘Yes I’m here because of him. If it wasn’t for him I’d be in a coffin,’ Aramis argued. 

Athos and Porthos looked at each other in confusion. 

‘Please tell me you at least asked him if he was alright?’ Aramis asked, but even as the words left his mouth he knew the answer. 

‘He was fine,’ Athos answered, ‘He was able to get back on his own volition which is more than we can say for you.’ 

Aramis felt like screaming in frustration. He threw the blankets off him and made the stand up. 

‘Woah, woah, woah. Where do you think you’re going?’ Porthos asked, holding his hands up to stop Aramis’ escape from the bed. 

‘I’m going to check on d’Artagnan. It’s obvious you didn’t ask him what actually happened and just jumped to your own conclusions. The complete wrong conclusion, by the way. d’Artagnan didn’t give away my position, he saved my life. There was another attacker in the trees,’ Aramis explained, pushing Porthos’ hands out of the way. His ascent was stopped as his own vision blacked out and he had to take several moments until his vision cleared. 

‘There was another attacker? That wasn’t in the reports,’ Athos stated, regret starting to rise in his chest. 

‘I know,’ Aramis sighed in frustration, ‘He obviously kept himself hidden. He was behind me before I realised. d’Artagnan shouted a warning and that’s the only thing that stopped the bullet going into my brain instead of just knocking me out.’ 

There were several moments of silence before Aramis huffed a sigh and continued his threat of getting out of his bed. 

‘Fine, fine. I’ll go and check on him,’ Athos finally gave in, pushing Aramis back towards his pillows. Aramis flashed him a smirk of triumph before pulling the blankets back around himself and letting his head rest against the soft pillow behind him. 

Now that he knew someone was going to check the on d’Artagnan his body felt ready to collapse. His head hurt worse than it ever had before, he could feel the wound on his temple pulse in time with his heartbeat. His body ached and he wanted to fall into the darkness of unconsciousness and wake up feeling perfectly fine. 

Porthos relaxed back into the chair that he had previously abandoned, putting his foot back on the bed, pressing his boot against Aramis’ thigh. Aramis shot him a faint look of indignation but they both knew it was false. The pressure on his leg helped him feel grounded and sleep wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket but he fought to keep his eyes open. He needed d’Artagnan to be in the room. He needed his brothers all in the one room; then he would be able to rest. 

Athos gave him a meaningful look before he twisted the door handle and made his way into the dark night. The garrison lights flickered in the wind and there were only the night guards present in the darkness. 

Athos stomped his way to d’Artagnan’s room. Folding his arms across his chest as a harsh wind sailed towards him, he resisted the tremor of cold that tried to run through his body. 

Standing outside d’Artagnan’s door he sighed loudly and knocked the door. He was angry at the younger man. The fear of almost losing Aramis and the sight of his blood coated face haunted him everytime he closed his eyes. 

When there was no answer after a few minutes Athos barely contained a growl of frustration before banging the door with his fist. For a second he realised that the boy must be sleeping, it was the middle of the night after all, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was tired, it was cold, and he just wanted to appease Aramis so he would get some rest. 

When there was still no movement from behind the wooden door after several more minutes Athos huffed and reached for the handle. Letting himself in his eyes struggled to adjust to the absolute darkness in the room. 

He shivered and looked in surprise at the fire grate. There was no fire burning there, not even dying embers to heat the room and the cold overwhelmed him. He looked at the bed but there was nothing in or on it. d’Artagnan wasn’t there. He couldn’t see anything but shadows and darkness around the room and he made his way over to the table by the window. 

Lighting a candle that was there he raised it high and shone it around the room.

His heart leapt to his mouth and his stomach turned to ice as the candlelight highlighted his unconscious brother slumped in the corner of his cold room. He rushed over and fell to his knees beside his friend, placing the candle as delicately as he could on the floor beside him. 

‘d’Artagnan?’ Athos shook his shoulder, watching in fear as there was no movement except for the dark bangs covering his friend’s unconscious face shaking. He raised a hand to d’Artagnan’s face, patting the cheek and cursing at how cold the skin felt beneath his hand. 

His eyes frantically searched over his brother’s body until they rested on his limp hand on the floor, a strip of something covered in blood clutched in his fingers. 

‘Oh Jesus,’ Athos whispered, reaching over and pulling d’Artagnan’s shirt up. The blood dripped slowly down his side but it was clear that the wound was old and had bled enough to render his brother unconscious. 

He recognised that this was beyond his skill level. d’Artagnan needed a doctor, and quickly if the bloodied bandages crumpled up beside him were anything to go by. 

Athos let the shirt drop back to cover the pale, cold skin before thrusting his arms under d’Artagnan’s knees and back. He hoisted him up into his arms, struggling for a moment to get his balance underneath him. While d’Artagnan definitely weighed less than Athos thought he should, he wasn’t accustomed to carrying an extra body around with him.

Moving as quickly as he could he rushed to the infirmary. Unable to knock with his arms full of unconscious musketeer, he gave the wooden door a few harsh kicks. Porthos flung the door open, ready to give a piece of his mind to the person disturbing his best friend’s much needed sleep but the words stuck in his throat as soon as he seen the men before him. 

Athos’ face was pale and panicked and the only sounds coming from d’Artagnan were harsh breaths, sounding as though he had been running for miles. 

‘Get in, what the hell happened?’ Porthos questioned, grabbing Athos by the sleeve of his doublet and dragging him into the door. He let his hand rest on d’Artagnan’s cold forehead for only a second before he was over throwing more wood into the fire to heat the room more. 

‘Porthos?’ Aramis croaked from the bed, raising his head and rubbing the brief sleep from his eyes. Once his eyes settled on Athos resting d’Artagnan’s body on the bed beside him he gasped and leapt out of his own sick bed towards him. That was a terrible idea in hindsight as his knees quickly buckled beneath him but he at least managed to make it to the side of d’Artagnan’s bed. 

‘What happened to him? Where is he hurt? Did you send for the doctor? Why…’ Aramis rambled, watching as Athos moved to remove d’Artagnan’s boots and trousers, leaving him only in his braies. 

‘I don’t know what happened, I haven’t sent for a doctor,’ Athos interrupted, removing d’Artagnan’s shirt to answer the rest of Aramis’ questions. 

The blood had mostly stopped, he was thankful to see, but a few drops still fell as Athos rearranged d’Artagnan on the bed, covering his bottom half with warm blankets and leaving his top half free for the doctor to examine. 

Porthos returned into the room - neither of the other conscious musketeers had been aware he had left - setting a bucket of cold water beside d’Artagnan’s bed and resting another one as close to the fire as he dared. 

‘I’ve sent David to get the doctor back,’ Porthos explained, grabbing a cloth from the cupboard and dunking it in the water. He ran it over the slice in d’Artagnan’s side, surprisingly gentle for a man of his size. None of them missed the wince of pain and the short groan that d’Artagnan let out at the contact. 

‘He’s so cold,’ Aramis stated as he gripped his friend’s limp hand, rubbing it between his own to try and warm the skin. 

‘There was no fire in his room. I found him on the floor,’ Athos explained, holding the other hand and rubbing it, trying his best to rid his friend’s nails of their blue tinge. 

‘This is a stab wound,’ Porthos growled beside them. He grabbed a nearby candle and held it closer to d’Artagnan’s abdomen. ‘Yep, definitely. When the hell was he stabbed?’ 

Aramis felt vomit rush up his throat but he took several deep breaths to keep himself in check. 

‘The forest. The man who shot me. I must have forgotten. d’Artagnan killed him with his sword after he shot me. I saw d’Artagnan fall. He must have been stabbed then.’ Aramis was ringing his hands, fighting the urge to help his brother’s wound. He was seeing double and knew if he attempted to stitch d’Artagnan now the boy would end up with the most hideous of scars. 

‘Oh God. What have we done?’ Porthos whispered, pressing a clean bandage to d’Artagnan’s side as the wound started bleeding again after being cleaned. 

‘We need to fix it,’ Aramis stated, resuming rubbing d’Artagnan’s cold and lifeless hands. 

Athos nodded. The guilt inside him was overwhelming. He had accused his brother of the most heinous of crimes, turned him away from his door when he needed them the most, and almost let him bleed to death in a cold, dark room. He would fix this. He needed to. 

‘We will.’


	3. Chapter 3

By the time the doctor reached the infirmary, Porthos was pacing back and forth, glancing at the door after each pass. Athos had not stopped warming d’Artagnan’s hands even after the skin had started to heat up. Aramis still knelt by the bedside, refusing to move back to his own sick bed until the doctor arrived, his rosary gripped between his fingers. 

A soft knock on the door announced the doctor’s arrival and he let himself in before Porthos could launch himself at the door. The candlelight highlighted the pale boy on the bed, his body trembling. 

‘What happened here?’ the doctor asked, setting down his bag beside d’Artagnan’s legs and pulling aside the bandage that Porthos had wrapped around d’Artagnan’s abdomen. 

‘He was stabbed,’ Porthos explained, standing at the doctor’s back and peering over his shoulder. The wound was raw and red, the skin puffy around the edges. Athos winced internally as he stared at the wound in the dull light of the room. 

‘It certainly isn’t fresh,’ the doctor remarked, allowing the bandage to drop to the floor beside him and taking off his coat. He rolled his sleeves up and started unpacking his bag. 

‘It appears to have happened several hours ago. We were unaware he was injured until only an hour ago,’ Athos spoke up, having placed d’Artagnan’s hand gently back onto the bed and moved out of the doctor’s way. 

The doctor hummed unconvinced; ‘If it did happen that long ago then this young man is a very good actor. He must have been in a lot of pain; this wound is very deep. I don’t know how he hid it for as long as he did.’

Athos and Porthos shared a guilty look between them. Aramis had managed to push himself so that he was sitting back on the edge of his own sick bed, wrapping and rewrapping his rosary beads around his shaking fingers. 

‘Will he be alright?’ He asked softly, leaning forward as much as he dared, his eyes frozen on d’Artagnan’s slack face. He reached a hand over and pushed back the dark hair from the boy’s face. He frowned as he rested a hand on his brother’s forehead. ‘He has a fever.’ 

The doctor nodded with a frown, getting his needle out of his bag and placing it in a bowl with brandy. ‘I was afraid of that,’ he answered, making his way over to the fire to get the now warm water, ‘I didn’t think we would be so lucky as to avoid infection.’ 

Porthos pulled a chair from the table over to beside d’Artagnan’s bed for the doctor to sit on. The doctor grabbed a cloth and dipped it into the warm water, pressing it as harshly as he dared against the trembling skin beneath his hand, cleaning away the dried blood. 

A soft whimper filled the silence of the room as d’Artagnan’s head tossed from side to side, his body trying its best to escape the pain. Athos shushed him softly, placing a warm hand onto the top of d’Artagnan’s head, his thumb rubbing against his fevered temple. 

‘Well gentleman, if you would like to leave, I’ll get this young man fixed up,’ the doctor nodded, reaching for the bottle of brandy beside him, ready to sterilise the wound. He looked up when there was no movement after several moments and smirked as he took in the men before him. 

Aramis still sat on the edge of his bed, his pale face watching his friend vigilantly. Porthos stood beside the window, his arms crossed against his chest, his body leaning against the table, his eyes never moving from d’Artagnan’s shivering abdomen. Athos had taken up residence on the bed beside the ill young man, one hand still resting on the boy’s head, the other pressed firmly and comfortably against his chest. 

‘Right then, you’d better make yourselves useful and keep this boy calm.’ 

The doctor soaked another cloth with the brandy and pressed it against d’Artagnan’s side. The boy’s back arched and he whimpered against the burn but there was no further movement from him. 

Athos kept his hand on top of d’Artagnan’s head, his thumb rubbing continuously against his brother’s temple, shushing his whimpers. 

Porthos had moved back over to the bed and rested his hands on d’Artagnan’s legs beneath the blankets, holding him steady against the doctor’s ministrations. 

‘Not as bad as I was expecting,’ the doctor nodded as he removed the brandy-soaked cloth and picked up his needle and stitching thread. ‘This might be worse.’

When the first stitch went through the tender skin, d’Artagnan moaned and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. His eyes flickered open and he blinked several times to clear his vision. Athos’ face peered down at him, a soft smile on his lips. 

‘Hello you,’ Athos whispered, patting his friend’s chest lightly. ‘It wouldn’t be like you to wake up just as the doctor is starting the most difficult part of this now would it?’ 

d’Artagnan’s forehead creased in confusion but his thoughts were quickly pulled away by the overwhelming pain in his side. A harsh whimper escaped his lips and he tried to shift his body away from the pain. 

‘Hush now,’ Athos spoke softly, removing his hand from atop d’Artagnan’s head and gently grasping his chin, making sure the boy’s attention was directly on him. 

‘You’ve been injured. The doctor has to stitch you up. It would be better if you tried to go back to sleep and get some rest.’ 

d’Artagnan’s eyes flickered around Athos’ face, struggling to focus, confusion still evident. 

‘Why are you in my room? Is Aramis alright?’ d’Artagnan’s rough voice whispered. He coughed lightly to try and clear it but to no avail. He made to push himself up to look around the room but was quickly pushed back onto the bed, a soft tutting sounding above him. 

‘Aramis is fine, see?’ Porthos chirped up, waving a hand in Aramis’ direction. d’Artagnan managed to turn his head to the side to see a pale and swaying Aramis sitting on the edge of his bed. 

‘I think,’ d’Artagnan started, interrupting himself with hiss as the doctor made another stitch in his side, ‘I think we have different ideas of what fine means.’ d’Artagnan closed his eyes and pressed his fists into the bed below him to contain the moans that he so desperately wanted to let out. 

Athos smirked and Porthos let out a burst of laughter. 

‘He’s not wrong, ‘Mis,’ Porthos chuckled, moving over to Aramis’ bed and all but forcing him to lie down. Aramis offered no protest which confirmed his friends’ suspicions of just how ‘fine’ he was feeling. 

‘Aramis will be fine d’Artagnan,’ Athos assured him, replacing his hand back onto the top of d’Artagnan’s head and offering him a smile when his eyes opened again. 

‘What happened? Why are you all in my room?’’ d’Artagnan whispered. He bit into his lip as the doctor put more pressure on his side. 

‘You’re in the infirmary, d’Art. Do you remember anything of what happened?’ Porthos asked softly, glancing at Athos in worry. 

‘I got Aramis hurt. I know I have to leave I just didn’t have the strength to. Just let me rest for a few minutes and I’ll leave,’ d’Artagnan nodded, his eyes fluttering closed. His breath hitched with each stitch that the doctor made. The doctor was trying his hardest to not involve himself with the Musketeers but his eyes glanced up at them when it was clear that d’Artagnan was close to unconsciousness. 

‘This young man is very lucky to not have any internal damage. He needs to rest for several days; and when I say rest I mean do not let him move from this bed. I don’t know where he thinks he is going but he is certainly in no position to be moving anywhere. And if he tears my stitching I will not be amused.’ 

The elder Musketeers nodded at the doctor’s stern face, watching as he gently wrapped a bandage around d’Artagnan’s abdomen before packing his bag and leaving the dim room with a nod of his hat. 

‘Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked, standing up and walking over to the chair that the doctor had vacated. 

‘Aramis was hurt,’ d’Artagnan mumbled back, forcing his eyes open and staring at Athos. The elder musketeer frowned at the over bright eyes watching him. He reached his hand over and rested it on his friend’s pale forehead. The fever he could feel building beneath the skin did nothing to settle his nerves. 

‘Yes,’ Porthos nodded in agreement, sitting himself at the end of d’Artagnan’s bed. ‘But you were also hurt,’ he added as though talking to a child. 

d’Artagnan turned his eyes to start at the dark man, the words not making sense to him. 

‘Got Aramis hurt,’ d’Artagnan whispered, turning his head on the pillow to look at his pale friend in the bed beside him. 

Aramis vehemently shook his head despite the dizziness it caused. 

‘You saved my life d’Artagnan,’ Aramis assured, reaching a hand out across the gap between the bed and grasping his brother’s wrist. His brow furrowed as he watched d’Artagnan’s face pale. 

‘Got Aramis hurt,’ d’Artagnan mumbled, his breathing increasing until he was almost gasping. 

‘d’Artagnan, you have to calm down,’ Porthos cooed, patting d’Artagnan’s thigh and looking at Athos for help. 

‘d’Artagnan, breathe,’ Athos all but ordered, placing his hand back onto d’Artagnan’s forehead and cursing at the heat there. d’Artagnan’s head turned back on the pillow and he stared up at Athos’ worried face. 

‘Got Aramis...got Ara...hurt,’ was all d’Artagnan managed to mumble before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell unconscious.


End file.
